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My mother was never one for ceremony, but birthdays were different. Birthdays — particularly *her* birthday — turned into birth months, and for weeks leading up to the event she’d drop hints on all the gifts she wanted. She always called me on my birthday, recalling details of my birth: how much I weighed, what time I was born, how difficult I was to bring into this world. We’d laugh; not much had changed. I had grown into a complicated woman, and it is only now that I accept how like my mother I am: stubborn, independent and curious, relishing solitude. We don’t want to admit as we get older that we have become clichés — our parents. Today I’ll celebrate the day of her birth with Suzy-Qs and a can of Pepsi, thinking about how much I miss her since she’s been gone.